It took her a minute to catch her breath. Her eyes closed, her legs still trembling, she put her hand on her chest to try and slow down her breathing. A smile formed from the corner of her lips. Eyes still closed, she stretched her other hand across the bed, anticipating the balmy feel of sweat and heat from their body. Instead all her palm felt was dry, cold bedsheets. She was startled into wakefulness. She sat up and looked across to the other side of the bed in bewilderment. Fuck! It was just another dream. She was on her own. All that action that had her hot and bothered was just a dream.

FUCK!! Was all she could scream out.

Falling back on her bed she stared at the ceiling. All the warm and fuzzy feelings she had just experienced were quickly replaced by trepidation and low key anxiety. Sadness wasn’t too far behind. She felt her eyes tear up. Her brain was willing her not to cry. Willing her not to give in to the loneliness, willing her to shake away the sense of despair and loss. Willing her not to go back to that dark place. Her willpower failed her. She let the tears flow from the outer corner of her eyes and down the side of her face, creating little, warm salty pools inside her ears.

Three fucking months and still, she could not get them out of her mind. Three months of her feelings being all over the place. One minute she is okay, waltzing through life like all is well with the world. Then she hears a song, or passes by a particular restaurant, or sees something funny on her phone and remembers she can’t forward the joke to them anymore. And all that was okay isn’t okay anymore. Her heart does this lurching thing that feels so raw and physically painful she just wants to crumble. Is there a pill that makes all this pain go away, she wonders to herself. With all the advancement in medicine, no one has thought to invent a pill that instantly cures heartache? Really?

She doesn’t know how long she lies down for. She is no longer interested in the day’s activities. All she wants is to curl up into a ball, pull the covers over her head and go back to sleep. But staying in bed all day will mean more hours in the day to miss them. To think about them. To wistfully wish for things that she can no longer have or experience at least not in the same way. Getting out of bed is the lesser evil, she affirms.

It was jarring at first when the break up happened. She had had no inkling that something was amiss in the relationship that would warrant a breakup. They had just come back from baecation and were in a taxi on the way back home, when her ex launched into the break up speech . Completely out of the blue, they said that they were breaking up with her and went on to list a number of reasons why the relationship had to end. All she could do was listen in stunned silence as the love of her life went on a monologue that eventually ended it all. By the time the taxi

stopped outside her house all she could do was pick her bag from the boot, stare back at her now ex through the back widow as the taxi peeled out of her apartment parking lot.

She doesn’t remember much about walking up the staircase, unlocking her house or leaving her luggage by the front door. She doesn’t remember taking off her shoes and getting into her bed fully dressed. When she woke up over 24 hours later, she didn’t immediately recognize her surroundings. All these things that were once familiar to her, all the things in her own bedroom, felt like somebody elses’ stuff. She glanced down at herself and only then did she realize she had slept in the pair of shorts and t-shirt she’d worn on the flight from the coast. Shit! She hated sleeping in her bed with her outside clothes. Her head felt a tad heavy, her lips were dry from dehydration and her bladder was screaming to be emptied. She had dragged herself out of the bed and made it to the bathroom just in time for the first trickle to land in the toilet bowl and not down her legs.

She sat on that toilet seat for longer than necessary. Slowly her mind had begun to try and process what had happened. Only a few days ago they had had a wonderful baecation by the ocean. Lazy days of sleeping in, late breakfast, afternoon excursions, evenings filled with yummy cocktails and hearty banter and nights of crazy love making. How had she missed it? Were there signs that her relationship was coming to an end? She felt almost delusional about the past couple of days. Had she been set up? Had her ex planned this all along? To take her on one last hurrah before crashing the world around her? What the hell had happened?

Her questioning soon morphed into anger. She wanted to know why. She felt like a fool that had been taken on a ride. She shot off the toilet seat with such force she nearly rammed into the bathroom door. Where the fuck was her phone? She needed to know why. She had questions and she needed answers. Where the fuck was her phone? She was frantically patting down the pockets of her shorts trying to find it. It wasn’t in her pockets. Not on her bedside either. Not on the floor of her bedroom. Maybe it was still in her bag. Where was her luggage? She walked out of her bedroom and toward her living room. There was her luggage, still on the floor by the door, where she had left it. She rummaged through the various pockets trying to find her phone. It was buried deep in the side pocket of her duffel bag.

Finding her ex’s number she hit the dial button. She watched the screen, waiting for her call to be picked. She paced up and down the living room. The call ended. Her ex was not picking. She dialed once more. This time round putting the call on loudspeaker. It rang unanswered. She hit dial for the third time. With each ring her anger rose like hot bile up her throat. The hell! They still were not picking up! Why the fuck were they not picking up?

If they were not going to answer her call, the next best thing was to leave a voice note. She opened a fresh message on WhatsApp and activated the record button.